there are butterflies upon the shades
amoung the wispy webs, the cactoid candles
clustered are they, as a city viewing the sun
and throughout there is silence, and
only the light is living within the dust
and I know only horror and wonder
from what dream were these concieved?
What widow spider’s wish would liken
this scene to a summer’s night?
their hollow bodies litter the floor and
their wings remain as a reminder
of such a view of divinity
only to be seen within a reverie of
racing hearts
and I look to the mirror, to see a raw
and beating mass of pure disgust
This is I, the beetle
who hauls away the segmented selves
And I am in my own
And the light from fountains
will share me with the future